


Walks Into A Bar

by AoifeMoran



Series: An Abundance of Slytherins [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Clueless Harry, Cormac McLaggen is an arse, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mild Language, Pansy Parkinson as usual is so done with your shit, Pre-Slash, Ron and Hermione are absolutely incidental to this, There is a bar fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 20:49:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4934803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AoifeMoran/pseuds/AoifeMoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cormac McLaggen walks into a bar. Everything that follows is his fault.</p><p>This is a companion piece to my earlier work, "Conquer Even Death," and might not make sense without having read it previously. Set between Harry and Ginny's rather publicized breakup, but before Harry asks Narcissa a certain question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walks Into A Bar

**Author's Note:**

> A large number of people asked if I would be writing a sequel to "Conquer Even Death." This isn't really a sequel, but it is sort of a companion to it, which I hope counts. I can't promise any more works set in this same universe, but I will try. :)
> 
> Thank you all for your readership and appreciation of my work, and I am grateful in advance for any appreciative comments you might leave!

Cormac McLaggen walks into a bar. This would be infinitely less of a problem if, say, Harry hadn’t already been in said bar, having already downed three firewhiskeys and waiting for the imminent arrival of Ron and Hermione to join him on their Friday night out. The room is spinning slightly. Harry scowls, as if it that will help. It doesn't. He scowls harder, in McLaggen's general direction. It's probably his fault.

Regardless, Cormac McLaggen is in the bar, and while he has yet to notice Harry sitting in one of the back booths, Harry has most definitely noticed him. And the way McLaggen eyes a petite brunette with a bob haircut and a strangely familiar nose nursing a drink at the bar.

It is a very predatory sort of eyeing, Harry notes. The young woman’s grip on her drink tightens. Her knuckles are white. She's drinking a Sex in Atlantis, an unusual choice of cocktail made of gillyweed liqueur, blueberry juice and Laistrygonian vodka. He can tell, as the drink is blue and the glass has frost on it. She’s probably a pureblood, since she’s gone for one of the obscurer drinks, Harry decides. Or at least wizard-raised through and through. Auror training taught him to notice things like this. And then he dropped out. It’s all for the better, really.

Harry is, he tells himself, simply observing. It’s not as if the brunette is his type - he’s just recently come to terms with his homosexuality, thanks to Narcissa Malfoy’s intervention. So he is genuinely only observing. No, really. McLaggen was a prat in school, but that doesn’t mean he’s got to intervene. Hermione’s always telling him he’s got a “saving people” problem, but here’s his chance to prove her wrong. He’s not intervening.

McLaggen begins to flirt with the brunette. His flirting is clearly unasked for. The young woman's glass cracks from the strength of her grip, and Harry is already standing, making his way over to where she is sitting at the bar and McLaggen is attempting to loom over her. Saving people problem, 1; Harry, 0.

“That’s a pretty interesting choice of drink for a girl like you,” McLaggen is saying, and Harry winces at his lack of originality. Merlin’s sake, mate, he wants to tell him, at least try something new. “Listen, I’m a magical archaeologist, darling, I can tell you all about down under, if you like. Or give you a practical demonstration.” And a sleazy wink, in case his meaning wasn’t clear. Which, granted, it wasn’t.

“Are you talking about Australia or my cunt?” The brunette asks, genuinely curious, in a shockingly posh voice that sounds absolutely blasphemous using such language. Harry’s gaze instantly falls on her instead of McLaggen, trying to figure out which year of Gryffindor she’d been in. Whoever she is, she has balls of steel, Harry thinks, impressed. She could give Ginny a run for her money. Best not tell Ginny that though, he adds mentally, chagrined. “Either way, you can leave now.”

The sheer dismissiveness of her tone sends a jolt of recognition through Harry. She was no Gryffindor, he realises. “You’re Pansy Parkinson!” He says aloud unwittingly, and both she and McLaggen finally notice his presence. Well, time to salvage the situation. Harry turns to stare at Cormac. “And you should be disgusted by yourself, McLaggen. Harassing women at the bar? I should have known.”

They both stare in shocked silence at him for a moment, as though unsure of how to respond, until Parkinson begins to laugh. It is not a particularly dainty, ladylike laugh. She snorts. “Merlin, Potter, all that’s left is to dye your hair blonde and add a sneer, and that’s textbook Draco,” Pansy manages to choke out through the laughter.

Harry frowns, confused. “Draco Malfoy? Defender of harassed women at bars?” It seems highly improbable, entirely unlike anything the Draco he had known at school might do. But then, a small, rational part of his brain reminds him, when they had been at school, Harry hadn’t been friends with Narcissa Malfoy. Many things have changed. Maybe even Draco, he concedes. It’s possible, even likely. Despite the frequency of his presence at Malfoy Manor, Harry and Draco have very rarely interacted.

“Yes, Potter,” someone sneers, a terribly familiar voice which puts him out of his reverie, “Unlike McLaggen here, some of our mothers raised us to respect women. Which you ought to know, as I hear you are a frequent guest at her teas. Or have you such a low opinion of her?”

Fuck, Harry thinks. Nothing about this evening is going the way he was planned. First McLaggen, and now Malfoy. He isn’t spared much time to complain, however, as Cormac chooses this moment to open his mouth. “Hang on, are you saying Potter’s fucking your mum, Malfoy?” He asks thickly. And then, Draco’s subtle insult taking him a moment, he adds, “And what’d you say about my mum?! I ought to-”

He is cut off both by Harry’s “How dare you say that about Lady Black-Malfoy!” and Draco’s simultaneous “How dare you say that about my mother!” Harry and Draco exchange similarly surprised but infuriated glances. Draco gives him a curt nod, and as one, they draw their wands.

“You dare…” Draco hisses menacingly. Harry is impressed - he’s almost managed to say ‘donkey-fucker’ in Parseltongue. Or, if they’re to be more accurate, ‘one who procreates with the four-legged work beasts’. Harry forcibly returns his attention to the unfolding bar fight, instead of the intricate semantics of bestiality in Parseltongue.

McLaggen fires off a non-verbal hex. Malfoy is too busy being plagued by dire imaginings of Harry with his mother in any sense other than the platonic. It is entirely up to Harry, who is in his element. He counters with a reflective shield charm, and follows up with the timeless “bar stool to the face” manoeuvre.

He did not factor in McLaggen’s absurd, and as it seems, literal thick-headedness. McLaggen shrugs it off and goes in for a tackle. Potter falls. Parkinson, sitting primly on her stool, takes a sip of her drink and surveys the unfolding events from on high. Malfoy appears to come to his senses, and he raises his wand, arm shaking, pointing it at the wrestling forms of Potter and McLaggen. He casts.

The spell misses, and meanwhile, McLaggen staggers upwards, leaning heavily on the bar. Potter tries weakly to staunch his bleeding nose, but decides that standing is a lost cause. Malfoy has this well in hand, he reassures himself.

Malfoy has none of this situation in either of his two hands. Thankfully, Parkinson decides that now is the moment to intervene, and performs a respectable stunner on McLaggen. He falls over, hitting his head on the bar on the way down. “Honestly, boys, I could have handled it myself,” she drawls lazily, surveying the mess they have made in the meantime.

“Fuck was that, Malfoy, performance anxiety?” Harry asks, having managed to heal his nose and haul himself up to sort of lean on a bar stool. “Not as fast as you were in Hogwarts, eh?”

“Shut up,” Draco growls, and swings his arm to point the wand at Harry. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” His arm is still shaking.

“You really don’t,” Pansy adds sweetly. Helpfully. And also slightly menacingly.

A silvery otter appears beside Harry as she speaks, and Hermione’s breathless voice tells Harry, “Harry, something’s come up, we can’t make it tonight, sorry!” He gets the distinct impression that she’s in something of a hurry, maybe running or something, as her words come in quick gasps.

He turns to Malfoy and Parkinson, offers a wry smile and manages to climb up and sit on the bar stool. “Well as it turns out, my friends won’t be joining me tonight, so I’ve got loads of time, so maybe you could help me understand?” He may be closer to drunk than tipsy, he decides, if he’s trying to understand Malfoy. Poncy, pretentious blond git Draco Malfoy, with his pointy chin and stupid face.

Draco sends Parkinson a helpless look. “I’m not drunk enough for this?” He tries. It comes off more a question than a real protest. Pansy slides him her drink. Draco downs all of it in one go, before he thinks better of the situation and asks, “Why am I even doing this? I don’t even like you! We hate each other! We have nothing in common and you’re daft if you think I’m about to spill all of my deepest secrets to you!” Pansy smirks knowingly, though the smirk is hidden by the rim of her new glass.

“I’ll tell you my secrets, if you want,” Harry offers. He is unexpectedly keen on hearing what Malfoy has to say. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Ginny’s asks, “Is this about your obsession with Malfoy again?” He shakes his head, hoping it will make the voice go away. Pity he was never much good at occlumency, Harry thinks.

“And we both have your mum in common.” He pauses, realising what it sounds like. “Not… I don’t mean we’re brothers or anything, Merlin, that’d be weird, I mean you’re all you,” he makes a fluttering sort of hand gesture in Malfoy’s general direction, trying to encompass all of him, “and I’m… I just mean your mum is amazing and those scones are literally magic, and I’m going to stop talking now...” In the middle of his awkward rambling, a firewhiskey has appeared in front of him. He shoots the bartender a grateful glance and takes a swallow. The burning down his throat matches the burning of his face. Harry is suddenly very thankful for the dim lighting of the bar. “

Yes, do,” Malfoy tells him dryly, and Harry can’t help but notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “Merlin, Morgan and Nimue,” he swears, “I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this. Tell no one, Potter.”

“Only me? Not Parkinson?” Harry asks, slightly offended by the lack of trust. It hurts more than it ought to. That is to say, it oughtn’t hurt at all. But it does. Harry refuses to think about the implications of it.

“Pansy is a Slytherin,” Draco says curtly. “I almost was, too, you know,” Harry remarks conversationally. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You? Slytherin?” Parkinson scoffs, finally deigning to add to the conversation. “Please. You wouldn’t have lasted there a second with all your honesty and ideals.”

That’s simply unfair, and Harry has to respond. “I know how to hide things. I know how to lie and cheat and steal. I spent ten years of my life in a bloody cupboard,” he says, anger rising with every word. “They worked me like a house-elf!” Pansy and Draco exchange shocked glances but wisely refrain from asking who ‘they’ are. “I would have been bloody great in Slytherin! The Hat told me so!” He shouts the last words, but no one else in the bar seems to notice. Pansy or Draco must have cast a muffiliato at some point during their conversation. His money's on Parkinson. Harry breathes heavily, trying to think past the sudden rage.

Draco leans forward and places a hand on Harry’s knee. It is maybe meant to be comforting. What it actually is is warm, smaller than Harry expected, and also kind of unsettling. Compassion and humanity is not something Harry readily associates with Draco Malfoy. Also, Harry’s stomach is attempting to perform feats of acrobatics it normally refrains from. He chalks it up to the fourth firewhiskey he’s just had. That must be it. It’s definitely not related to Malfoy looking intently at Harry as though attempting to convey something through legilimency. His eyes are very grey. Stunningly so.

Harry blinks, and the moment ends, Malfoy recoiling quickly backwards. “Well don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he sneers, as if trying to erase all evidence of his having demonstrated compassion for a fellow human being. Or maybe specifically for Harry. “I’ll tell you the bloody story.” He takes a sip of his drink, either for courage or for the sake of a dramatic pause. It’s hard to tell, with Malfoy. “Anyway, you probably already know it. You testified for me, after. You know what my task was. But since I failed then, I haven’t been able to raise my wand to harm another person. I keep seeing his face. Do you know what that’s like?” The question comes out a strangled half-whisper.

“What, Voldemort’s?” Harry asks, confused. Because if Draco’s asking him if he knows what it’s like to see Voldemort’s face every time he closes his eyes then _yeah_ , he bloody well does.

Draco clenches his jaw, and his fists. Pansy rolls her eyes. “So it’s true, then,” she muses. “Playing Quidditch does turn one into a hopeless idiot.”

“No, _not_ the bloody Dark Lord, Potter, you imbecile,” Draco gets out through clenched teeth. “ _Dumbledore_. Every time I raise my wand I see fucking Albus Dumbeldore judging me. Alright?!” His voice breaks. “And I can’t, I don’t want to… That’s why I went to America, to study potions. I thought if I was far, and didn’t need a wand, it would stop, but it doesn’t, and I don’t know what to do…”

Pansy sniffs and rolls her eyes at this outpouring of emotion. “I have to go powder my nose,” she announces, unwilling to deal with this.

“I _know_ , Dra- I mean, Malfoy. I know.” Harry whispers, placing a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder to get him to look up. “It’s why I quit the Aurors. I just couldn’t do it. It’s what they wanted, not what I did. Every time I put on those robes I saw their faces. Everyone who died in the war. I couldn't deal with it. And now I’m coordinating international youth Quidditch matches, and I’m so much happier, you’ve no idea.”

Draco lets out what sounds suspiciously like a sob. Harry reaches, instinctively, to hug him. “No one else wants to talk about it,” Draco mumbles into his shoulder. He sort of clings on to Harry, as if he hasn’t been hugged too often in his life and is unsure of what to do with his arms. Harry pats him awkwardly on the back. “They just want to move on, and forget it, and go on with their lives.”

“It’s alright. Well, no, it’s not, but you know. I _know_ , you know? And I’m here, if you ever want to talk about it. Really talk about it, I mean. Like sit down somewhere that’s not in public and just work through all of it.”

“What do _you_ know,” Draco sneers, momentarily appearing to regain his composure and pulling away from what has got to be the most awkward hug in the history of the universe, trying to save face after having shown someone his weakness, before he scrunches up his face like he’s in pain and collapses towards Harry’s chest again. “I’m sorry, I bet you really _do_ know, you went through more than all the rest of us, and so much of it was my fault, you really are a bloody saint, Saint fucking Potter, you know, putting up with me and my bullshit when you probably ought to hate me, and I’ve never even said it but you know, I am sorry, and…” His words peter out as he runs out of air, and a choked sort of sob comes out instead.

Harry just sits there, baffled. This seems incredibly out of character for the Draco he knows, the Draco who strutted around Hogwarts like he owned the place, and acted like he was made of ice and didn’t care. “I mean, we were all sort of idiots back at school,” he tries. “And there was the time that I, y’know, almost killed you with a spell that I didn’t even know what it was meant to do, so let’s say maybe we’re even and start over?”

He is reminded very strongly of a moment on a sunny September afternoon when a young blond boy extended him his hand, and Harry, in a moment of spite, rejected it. Draco doesn’t respond. He thinks, for a moment, that this is Draco’s revenge. Turnabout is fair play, and all that. Then he hears the soft snore, and looks down.

“Oh, fuck you,” he swears softly, but there isn’t really any anger in it. It's almost fond, in fact. He brushes Draco’s hair back from his face, because it looks soft, and also because no one is really going to stop him. Except, of course, Pansy Parkinson, who has clearly decided that her nose is sufficiently powdered, as she makes her way through the bar, which is rather shabbier now than it had been when Harry walked in.

“He gets disgustingly sentimental and dramatic when he’s drunk,” she remarks, picking up someone’s abandoned drink. It might be Harry’s but he is too tired to care, at this point. Parkinson takes a sip, and then adds, “Not that he isn’t usually sentimental and dramatic, but I mean, he usually saves it for a select few people that he trusts above everyone else. When he’s drunk, he has no filter. I can’t stand it, personally.”

Wow, Harry thinks. With friends like these, it’s a wonder Draco has ever managed to open up to anyone. “I don’t mind,” he tells her. “Gryffindor honesty and all that.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know,” she replies drolly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I shall take him off your hands, and return him to the Manor.” Harry realizes he has been holding Draco against his chest all this time. He wonders if he ought to say something to defend himself, like maybe point out that Draco would have fallen if he hadn’t held on to him, but Pansy has already cast a mobilicorpus and begun to levitate him in the direction of the Floo.

“Yeah. Yeah, tell him that. And tell him that I wouldn’t mind a fresh start if he doesn’t,” he calls after her. He doesn’t know if she’s heard.

“She’s like a cat, that one,” the bartender says after a moment. “Left without even saying goodbye.” That’s apt, Harry thinks. Slytherins are sort of like cats. They like to push things off of shelves just to watch them break, like Pansy sitting pretty while he and Draco fought McLaggen, and make dramatic exits and entrances.

“Yeah, fucking Slytherin cats,” Harry says to himself.

“So are you gonna pay the tab, or not.” The bartender adds. It’s clearly not a question.

Harry sighs. “Yeah, hand it over, then.” It comes out around 200 galleons. It's definitely McLaggen's fault.


End file.
